


Why are you looking at me like that?

by thejourneymaninn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Death, Fluff, Hawke's gender is not mentioned, Januanders, M/M, Tranquility, basically a lot of miracles, brief mentions of Hawke/Fenris, implied/referenced past abuse/non-con, miracles and more miracles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejourneymaninn/pseuds/thejourneymaninn
Summary: On a sunny morning in a little hut in the woods, Anders lingers in bed for a moment, listening to Karl’s footsteps in the kitchen, and thinking back on how they got there.For Januanders Day 4 (Anders and Karl) and Day 25 (Anders and Happiness) – to give Anders and Karl the happy ending they deserve.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_hate_mages_No_you_dont](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_hate_mages_No_you_dont/gifts).



> For @selfmadeelf (Kittenmage of I_hate_mages_No_you_don't on AO3), who has been crying a lot about Karl and Anders lately and deserves a little fluff, and a happy ending for them.

The first light of the day falls upon his face, tickling his nose. He opens his eyes to furniture, modest yet comfortable, shelves of books, flowers on the windowsill. The room is filled with life. With warmth. Sometimes, he grins as he sees the clothes haphazardly strewn across the floor, with fire. Not quite so often, after all this years and with so many more grey streaks, but with no less force.

He is alone, sprawled over the full width of the bed, but the pillow next to his is still warm. His lips slope into a soft curve, lazy like the rest of his body. Of course he got up first. Anders can hear him, faintly, bustling around in the kitchen, floorboards creaking under his feet. His smile gains force. Even as a boy, Karl was never good at sneaking.

The clanking of cupboards, the rustling of tea leaves. The hiss of boiling water, so much like that shocked, desperate breath when he plunged the knife into his lover’s body. When he listened to his pleas to kill him, and lost him for good.

 

Or at least, for too many years.

The loss, the wound, it never healed. Gaping at first, it closed, but festered, oozing, constantly, through mourning, through new friendships, through battles and victories, through hope - and its destruction. He pushed it down. There was no other choice; he was always just one fatal memory away from drowning. The years went by, and he thought he had forgotten.

Until he stormed through the Gallows, his friends at his side and at his feet, the corpses of and mages alike. Hawke had not abandoned him, had not abandoned his kind. But the Templars were fast, and without mercy. Cries of despair and death ringing in his ears, he was looking for someone, anyone, he could safe. He tore open a door to the Templar’s quarters – and froze, all colour draining from his face, leaving him ashen in the middle of cold stone and drying blood.

“It…it cannot be…”

“Anders? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Karl. Calmly sitting on a bed with his hands folded in his lap. And on his forehead, the sunburst brand, in all its horror and finality.

“A _demon_ ,” Fenris hissed behind him, and Anders felt his face grow hot with fury.

But he didn’t get the chance to argue. It only took Merrill a few seconds to examine the living shadow in front of them and shake her head.

“No. He’s real. There’s no trace of a demon...or…magic.”

Anders struggled for words, for anything to cling to.

“Karl, I…I don’t understand. Is it really you? How…how can you be here?”

A short pause as Karl cocked his head just the tiniest fraction, his expression the same eerie blankness as before.

“Of course. I recall that I asked you to kill me, and that you did as I asked. You left my body lying on the floor and fled before the other Templars came. You cannot know. I fell, but I did not die.”

“I saw the knife. His aim was correct. Impressively so, in fact, for someone not used to handling a blade. You should have been dead within minutes.” Fenris sounded calmer, yet no more convinced than before.

“Shortly before you arrived, a Templar gave me a potion. He said Ser Alrik had ordered it. I did not know what it was, but I suspect it is the explanation you’re looking for. I sustained injuries, but the Templars got to me in time. I am glad they did. My talents are valuable. I was not allowed outside to sell my wares, yet I have been told they are popular.”

“Sounds like a Lifeward potion to me,” Varric supplied, an unusually grim touch to his voice.

“Ser Alrik….He must have known I wouldn’t leave Karl in this state, so he…Maker, how much of a sadist do you have to be to….” He stood there, in tears, shaking with ten years of locked-away rage and despair.

Next to him, Hawke’s voice, inquiring with so much gentleness it hurt, “What happened to you after…they brought you back here?”

“I became Ser Alrik’s assistant. When he died, Ser Thrask claimed my services, although he rarely made use of them. He told me what they had done to me was a crime, and that he wasn’t certain Ser Alrik had done me a kindness in saving my life. I am not sure what he meant by that. Surely it is better to be alive? Last month, he died too. I have not yet been given a new assignment.”

“How…how did I not hear about this? The mage underground…I had contacts…Why did no one tell me Karl…”Anders still didn’t manage more than broken, helpless stammering.

“They call me Elrin, now. Ser Alrik said you would be pleased to hear that when they brought you in, Anders.”

“No! No, you’re _Karl_.”

“I remember that name. And I recall that you used to smile when you said it, although I can’t remember why. If you wish, you may call me that. They are both only words. One is not better than the other.”

He stood staring, silent, aware of the trails of tears on his cheeks, the pitiful noises in the back of his throat. It couldn’t be. _It couldn’t be_.

“Anders...I…I can’t even begin to imagine what you are going through right now, but we _have_ to keep moving. Every second we wait may cost more mages their lives. Whatever you decide to do…it has to be _now_.”

He recognized the truth of Hawke’s words, of course he did. This was _his_ fight; it was more important than anything else.

Yet he could not move.

“I…I can’t. I cannot kill him, not again, I can’t…I can’t go on like this…I…”

“I would prefer not to die. I can still be of use.”

That monotone voice, the lack of expression on his face, it should have been enough to set him into motion. But he was still frozen to the spot.

“If you do not wish to do it yourself, I can make it quick. He will not suffer.”

Fenris’ offer, the heated snap Anders hurled at his face, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” and the reply, somewhere between resignation and acidity.

“It may surprise you, but no.”

And still Anders was standing there, unable to move…or make a decision.

“I can do it, sweet thing if you want the last thing he sees to be a friendly face.”

He still recalls the softness in Isabela’s voice, the hand on his shoulder, her light squeeze, the smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

He could not take her up on it. Not after the explosion, after He had done what needed to be done. Hawke had assured him of that. And, much to Anders’ surprise, so had Isabela. He knew it was true but...he could not do it again. Even though it was what he owed Karl, even if though it was what the man he had once been would have wanted…Anders could not take another life. Not that day.

Nor any other day, as it turned out.

He took Karl with him, through the fight and into the mountains, and as Karl walked past carnage and coast with exactly the same look on his face, Anders silently begged for forgiveness.

And he kept doing so, every day, for almost two years, as he fled through all of Thedas with a man who never complained and never felt joy.

He couldn’t do it, not even after that first, horrifying night, when Karl, without the slightest change in expression, asked whether he wished for him to share his bed.

Not even then, when they lay on separate bedrolls and Anders sobbed himself to sleep, did he have the strength to keep his promise. Now, he knows it was for the best, thanks the Maker every single day for this blessing. Then, he felt nothing but weak, a cruel coward forcing the love of life to exist as a shell, because he could not bear to lose him again.

Justice had become quieter, after the explosion. Their work was not done, but he seemed to understand that from now on, their part in the fight would have to be much smaller. They had set the wheels into motion. Someone else would have to steer their course. But sometimes, when everything became too much, Justice would still surge through him, light up his veins, his eyes. And for a few seconds, Karl would be back. And beg Anders for mercy, for release from this prison of nothingness. And every time, he would take it back as soon as the effect had faded. It didn’t matter. Anders didn’t have the strength to grant him his wish, and there was no longer anyone at their side to offer help. They were alone.

 

 

The thud of mugs being placed on the counter, a lot like the knock on the door to the little hut they eventually had settled in.

Not Templars, as he had feared. Not Hawke, as he had hoped.

Fenris.

He ushered him inside, led him into the kitchen, anxiously sat down, silence and his rickety table between them. The elf took in the room around him, his expression revealing nothing.

“Is your friend still with you?”

“Yes,” Anders said with more force than he had intended, “he is. I was too weak to kill him, alright? Happy now?”

He couldn’t have said what kind of a reaction he had expected – but it was definitely not the small smile that played around the elf’s lips.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Trying to mask his confusion with an exaggerated sigh, he asked, “Why are you here?”

“Varric suggested sending you a letter but…I thought you should hear it in person, from a…from someone you know.”

“Fenris, what happened? Maker, no, tell me Hawke isn’t…”

“Hawke is fine. Held up at Weisshaupt and definitely in trouble once I get there, but fine.”

“Then wh …?”

“Mage,” Fenris cut in, “there is a cure for tranquillity. The inquisition found it. Or rather, they discovered that it had existed all along, hidden for centuries by those in power.”

Once again, Anders was left staring, ice in his veins as his heart hammered in his ears.

“Wha…what?”

“From what I have been told, there are side effects. And there is no guarantee he will be able to handle his emotions when they return. But it is a chance. Varric spoke to the Inquisitor, on your behalf. She is willing to send two of her people to help with the necessary ritual, as you cannot visit the inquisition headquarters for…obvious reasons. She cannot spare them for long, so we have to act soon. Should you decide to go through with it, I shall send them a message tonight.”

He can still feel the shock as clearly as he felt it in that moment. Its residue has never left his soul.

“I…I am not sure I…it has been so long. And in the Gallows…what Ser Alrik did to him…if it all comes back…what if it breaks him…I…I don’t know what to do I…”

“A small chance is better than none. There is nothing to lose that you haven’t already lost.”

Anders remembers, with more than a little shame, how his eyes narrowed at that, how he leaned in and accused. Dangling over the abyss of hope, all he could do was lash out. At least it was the last time he did it.

“Where’s the catch, heh? Are they coming to capture me and you’re just paving the way? Why would _you_ want to help me? Did Varric even send you? Or are you both in on it? Tell me what’s going on or I swear…!”

Fenris did not seem surprised, did not even flinch as he quietly said. “I…did not believe happy endings were possible. I did not even know such a concept existed. Until I got mine. I know we haven’t always been friends, but...you should have yours.”

There was a long moment of silence. And then, unexpected, there was grin tugging at the corners of Anders’ mouth.

“As long as it is not with Hawke?”

Fenris mirrored his expression. “Exactly.”

Anders looked at him across the small table. His hair longer, a few more lines around the eyes...and yet he seemed younger, somehow. Content, relaxed even. That was the thing about him and Hawke - they were good for each other, understood each other in a way Anders had never had access to. He had envied them, bitter in the knowledge that they shared what had been ripped away from him.

And there they were, going out of their way to help him get it back.

“Fenris, I am…” he cleared his throat, the words making their way across his lips in a hesitant crawl, “sorry for the way I treated you when…Hawke rejected me for you. I did not…take that well.”

There was a slight twitch to Fenris mouth, yet nothing else changed in his expression as he said, “Do not sell yourself short mage. You did not need Hawke to hate me.”

“You...have a fair point. But well…you weren’t exactly my biggest fan either….”

Another twitch, bigger this time, a slight crinkling around the eyes. “That is also true.”

“Still…I’m sorry.

“As am I. It is in the past, mage. Let it rest.”

He nodded, and they felt silent. Everything had been said, but Anders couldn’t keep himself from trying to fill the room with words, trying to delay his departure and the moment when he would be alone with his thoughts.

“So, eh, how is everyone? I…haven’t exactly heard much lately.”

“Varric is still with the Inquisition, although the _why_ is beyond me. Aveline is trying to keep Kirkwall from falling apart. A pointless endeavour, as we both know. She and Donnic seem to be happy. Last thing I heard, they adopted a couple of mabaris. Isabela and the witch are still at sea. I am not certain as to which sea, but their letters never fail to entertain. Sebastian is still in Starkhaven.” The name made Anders’ stomach clench, threats and hatred ringing in his ears. “He has given up his hunt for you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Anders huffed. There were few things more powerful than grief. He would know.

“Hawke sent someone to discreetly keep an eye on him.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Fenris nodded. “Some warden we had to save from the fade to…repay a debt. He was raised by the Chantry, just like Sebastian, but their opinion on it couldn’t be more different. His mouth curved upwards ever so slightly. “The only thing they seem to agree on is not wanting to be king. They have a similar temperament, however, and he seems to have been a good influence. You would like him. He talks a lot. And apparently Sebastian is capable of listening. He seemed…calmer, the last time I saw him…”

“You saw him?” Anders asked, fighting a wave of alarm.

“Yes. And to answer your question: No. As far as he is concerned, I have no idea where you are. And neither does Hawke, of course, having publicly decried your actions…The dwarf is a competent liar. Listening to him, nobody would believe he is your friend,” Fenris added with a smirk as he pushed back his chair. “I should move on. The letter needs to be sent today.”

Anders got up as well, and walked him to the door. Their Goodbye was no less awkward than their greeting.

“Fenris? Thank you…”

A curt nod before the elf disappeared into the woods. “Do not waste this chance. You have fought enough. We all have.”

Anders couldn’t have agreed more.

 

 

He pulls the blanket up to his chin with a groan, stomach lured into song by the smell of bacon sizzling in a pan. His appetite isn’t lessened by the sound of eggs cracking.

That bald know-it-all elf… No. Anders owes him gratitude. Say what you will about him, he made it possible, found a way to perform the ritual even with the veil torn and the world in flames. Apparently there’s a "plot twist" about him, but Varric said that would have to wait until they could meet in person. This time, his smile is a sad one. How many years has it been; how many more will it be? Kirkwall isn’t a place where he can safely show his face.

But whatever the “twist”, it doesn’t really matter. Solas helped them. He was even…understanding, albeit in a pompous-arse way. Anders owes him. Karl would still be an empty shell if it wasn’t for him, and the boy that is and isn’t a boy.

A spirit of compassion. But he preferred to be called Cole.

He had come to ease Karl’s pain, yet he could not take all of it.

“ _They will erase what I feel; they will steal who I am. I mustn’t forget; it hurts; it hurts. I am only real if it hurts_ …I can’t make him forget. He is scared. I do not steal. I am not a demon.”

Limited as the help he could offer was, his presence seemed to calm Justice even more. A single touch of his hand communicated more than twelve years of shared thoughts had been able to. As Mr. Shinyhead put it, “Justice and Compassion are at their best when they work together.”

Perhaps he was right. They both reached out to Karl, and together, they managed to soothe Karl’s mind, to heal the worst of it.

But what remained was still bad enough to make Anders regret his choice.

 

 

The sound of a mug bursting on the floor, like all those times after Karl had been cured, when he hurled everything in reach across the room, only to collapse onto the floor in a boneless, sobbing heap a minute later. Twelve years of feelings all at once, the memories of the Gallows, of Ser Alrik…In the end, it had been his sadism that brought Karl back to him, yet the irony still taste like ashes after all those years, entwined as it is with the cries and tears, the blood as his head hit the walls, his wails when emotion overwhelmed him, when there was but one target for all his fury and accusations, and Anders was sure he couldn’t bear it.

He had not send for them, but they came anyway, trying to help bring him back to life. Hawke and Fenris. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but Hawke didn’t find the right words to say to the broken man in front of them. Fenris, however, did. Or rather, he found the right silences. A quiet, never-wavering calmness that Karl could rage against until there were no screams left.

When they left, Merrill and Isabela were already at the door. And Isabela, the last person Anders would ever have expected to understand, turned out to be the one who managed to reach Karl. With a quiet tenderness Anders had never known she possessed, she spent whole nights at his side, an arm around his shoulder and words whispered into his ear. Words that his lover has, to this day, not shared with him.

Months turned into a year, but eventually, Karl became calmer. And a few months later still, he became…Karl. The man he had known. No. Not the same man. The years had changed him. But it didn’t matter. They had changed Anders too. And for all the changes, even if he was older, more scarred, more scared, beneath all that – it was still _him_. The only one Anders had ever truly loved. A love that had never stopped, not even when he had been pining for Hawke, when they shared that one kiss, right before the warrior’s love for Fenris won over, and Anders was sent away with tears and apologies.

As it seemed now, sent to wait for what had always been meant for him.

It wasn’t an easy path. They fought; they struggled; they had to find each other again and sometimes, Anders was certain they would not make it.

But they did. The roots of all they had shared were still there. Once they started watering them with more than tears, nothing could have kept love from blooming again.

And Anders…Anders was forgiven.

 

For the blade he had sunk into his flesh.

_I asked you to. We all thought it was irreversible_. _You did it to save me_.

For the years of servitude, locked away in the Gallows.

_You had no way of knowing. And it was you who killed Ser Alrik. Yet another thing for which I owe you gratitude_.

For all his failures. For a whole world hunting them.

_I am proud of you. I remember all those nights in the dormitories, when we whispered about fighting back. Most apprentices did. Yet you didn’t stop at whispers. You changed the world, love. It’s a slow process, but now that it has begun, there will be no stopping it. And no matter what happens - we are together. We are free. That is all that matters._

He couldn’t believe it, at first. But Karl was still Karl. And Karl had always known him better than he knew himself, and he kept telling him, every day, ending each reassurance with a kiss, until Anders finally believed him.

Some days, he still forgets he believes him.

Then Karl reminds him.

Other days, the demons they thought beaten return, knock the air out of Karl’s lungs and his feet off the ground.

Then Anders takes his hand. And they fight them together.

 

 

In their tiny hut, that small piece of the world that is theirs alone, Anders sits up in his bed. He strokes his fingers over the letter on the nightstand. Just a short note in Hawke’s broad, careless strokes.

_What they found looks promising. As soon as I hear more, I’ll let you know._

That last curse tainting their happiness. A whispered promise of more years ringing in his ears. He knows it is a foolish hope.

But foolish hope is what got them here.

 

Footsteps in the hallway, Karl’s head poking around the corner.

“Awake yet, love? Breakfast’s ready - and you promised me a walk through the snow afterwards.”

Still so handsome, so strong and calm. Still that same smile on his face, the one that was his anchor, his lifeline to cling to in the quiet terror of the Circle. Sometimes, he still can’t believe he got it back, has to pinch himself to make sure he’s real, and here. With Karl. Who loves him. Every part of him, even the ones that are Justice. He feels moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes, and he hastens to blink it away. Apparently, it's one of those mornings…this happiness, that feeling of home and love and safety, is almost too much to bear.

As Anders stares wordlessly, his lover looks back at him with that gentle, steady smile. More lines around the edges of his mouth, a little heavier around the middle, but the spark in Karl’s eyes is still that of a 17-year-old boy as he cocks his head and asks, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t have time to edit this, but I wanted to get this out while it’s still, you know, Januanders. I might revisit this later to make it a little less clunky and hunt for typos. Unless I'm too lazy. So yeah...I probably won't.


End file.
